


Fumes

by ForeverMATT



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Author's interpretation of modern cult-based War Boy culture, Bartering, Blood, Brainwashing, Cult, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Drugs, Empire, F/M, FUMES, Gore, Joe Moore built an empire on drug money and slaves/followers, Language, M/M, Mind Fuck, Modern AU, Multi, N1F4, Night Fumes, Sacrifices, Slavery, Slow Build, Story might get crazy, Trafficking, Trauma, Violence, chrome - Freeform, drug peddling, people can be traded for N1F4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:21:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6318112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverMATT/pseuds/ForeverMATT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[AU] A modern day businessman, Immortan Joe rules a hidden empire full of crazed, brainwashed Boys and enslaved Wives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Fumes  
> Summary: [AU] A modern day businessman, Immortan Joe rules a hidden empire full of crazed, brainwashed Boys and enslaved Wives.  
> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to MM:FR [Mad Max: Fury Road] or anything I may reference.  
> Author's Note: I've been wanting to write something like this for a while.  
> WARNINGS: Cult-based story. Drug peddling and drug use. Addiction. Death. Sacrificed infants. Sexual situations (future chapters). Graphic depictions of violence, abuse, rape, injury, etc (future chapters).

**[PROLOGUE]**  
  
Joe Moore had built an empire. It wasn't just speculation; it was fact. But it was a well coveted fact that he had no intention to reveal. And why would he, when things were running so smoothly?  
  
On the surface of what society tabulated, Joe Moore was deemed a businessman with eccentric tendencies and a reclusive nature. But what drove his name into fame and riches, was the fact that he had something peculiar in his grasp that everyone wanted to get their hands on: a marketable product that was finally ready for distribution.  
  
' _N1F4_ ', is what it was called on paper. A plausible medicine that the pharmaceutical companies were failing to keep under-wraps.  
  
With this venue as his stead, Joe was a highly successful entrepreneur. Everything about him was smooth and charismatic, except for his face- but there was no cure for hella-ugly. His nose was too bulbous for his squinted, wrinkle-rimmed eyes. His skin was pale, a stark contrast to the itchy and flaky patches of reddish skin... and the boils.  
  
There were medications and procedures that could fix his appearance, surely, but the man had made peace with his physical features long ago. He'd even come to see it as an advantage, for it made him seem intimidating and standoffish towards those who didn't have the right to waste his precious time.  
  
Regardless, his fortune was more than enough to cover his looks, and he took pride in his holdings. His monetary gain. The fact that people near and far had heard of N1F4 and paid a fortune for mere samples. Cash rolled in, and he never so much as had to pay a shipping fee. Beggars of varying degrees of wealth sought him out, offered him riches and wine and women. He had everything, and all he had to do, was push a product.  
  
His venture in the business realm, of course, was a mere formality. It gave him connections, if needed. It enabled him to flaunt his goods and hide his true intent in plain sight.  
  
In an almost ironic twist, for all his boasting on the N1F4, the actual use of the product was never given a description.  
  
Crafty words and reputable speeches afforded him the secrecy.  
  
When a question was asked, Moore would simply say: "No comment" or "It's still being tested- I'll get back to you" and "The benefits are numerous; just wait and see."  
  
It was work. But it was easy work. And no one ever turned down easy money- the sheer amount of hookers that lined the streets of lesser cities and slums were proof enough of that.  
  
While Joe enjoyed a fairly respectable reputation and all the perks that came with it, the true shine in his life's work was something he kept a tight lip over.  
  
His literal empire.  
  
Miles away from any major city, he owned a sect of houses -an entire district built around his personal estate, all fenced in with walls built 15 feet high. He lived comfortably  enough, and his additional housings were filled with his own personal stock, comprised mostly of men and boys. There were women as well, but the women were... gifts, bartered and traded to him for a taste of N1F4. The women were contracted to Joe and forced to remain in the main villa until death or dismissal- the former being more common. These women were referred to as _the_ _Wives_. His treasures. Privileged objects.  
  
Joe loved his Wives like most women love an expensive piece of jewelry. Something nice, and pretty. Something to show off but never lend. Something to polish and admire... and never let go.  
  
The Wives came with names of their own, as most humans do, but Joe had quickly found the names to be unfitting; he renamed them based on how he viewed them. Like naming a pet.  
  
Joe also treasured his Boys. _War Boys_ , he called them. Some were gifts, like the Wives, but he only accepted them if they were young with malleable minds, or if they had a valuable skillset. Other War Boys came into his custody under the course of fate; they'd been runaways and misguided teens who needed someone to take them in. Some were angry, depressed, or oppressed and rebellious. Some just needed a place to belong, and Joe took them in with a smile and open arms. He changed their names, gave them tasks and a purpose. And they loved him for it. Then, of course, last of the War Boys were simply born into the estate, birthed from one of the Wives. It was a simple system that could eventually grant Joe his definition of the perfect heir to run his growing empire.  
  
For the ones that were birthed, the Wives would work together to feed and care for the fresh-born 'War Pup'. The mothering would be appropriate for the first two years, and then the the child- if male- would be discharged from maternal care and moved into a different home to be trained by the older Boys. If the child were female, it would either be exiled beyond the fence, or it would be ceremoniously slaughtered.  
  
The death of a baby girl was something sacred that started with the beating of drums and ended in bloodshed and prayer. It was a ritual of sorts that served as a means to desensitize the Boys while snuffing out weaknesses early on.  
  
A weak mind was worse than a weak body.  
  
War Boys were not meant to be soft. War Boys were taught to embrace pain, breathe and bleed devotion and duty, and to ultimately believe in Joe. Joe the Immortal. Immortan Joe. Their father and God. And... their eventual reaper.  
  
Joe Moore... had built himself an empire of Wives, workers, and warriors. He had money and drugs and a firm hold on politics. His only downfall in life was his failing immune system, but he kept that little detail to himself. He'd live long enough to perfect his own personal colony and find an heir for replacement.


	2. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it all began... Before the great empire took root, there had to be a driving force: a reason behind Joe's madness, and a method to turn his waning hostility into strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Fumes  
> Summary: [AU] A modern day businessman, Immortan Joe rules a hidden empire full of crazed, brainwashed Boys and enslaved Wives.  
> Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to MM:FR [Mad Max: Fury Road] or anything I may reference.  
> Author's Note: Just a chapter to explain and introduce some things that will be referenced in future chapters.

**[Beginnings]**

It was almost worthy of being made into a biography- or one of those silly little stories that self-proclaimed authors stash on the net due to boredom and a lone spark of inspiration- how it began, minus the growing sickness that seemed to dictate Joe Moore's life, harassing his every thought and making him contemplate the harrowing future. Like many people who felt like they were living life grasping at the fraying end of a rope, his mind circulated all the major plot points in life. Work. Money. Women. And a child to carry on his name. His legacy. Anything else would be just a bonus.

It occurred to him one day, as he sat in a park (which, due to fluctuating weather patterns was always either dry with wilting plants and cracked grounds, or wet and swampy with thick mud pits that squelched beneath the pressure of shoes) and perused the _'Wasteland'_ Sunday paper, that his sickness was virtually incurable. Terminal by technicality. Something akin to cancer but not quite. Something no doctor or specialist could diagnose or know how to treat, so they simply managed his symptoms.

Radiation and chemo had only dragged him down and thinned his hair, which had turned white prematurely. The numerous medications that he was supposed to take like clockwork ate him up from the inside burned through his liver like acid rain through foliage. The tests and appointments he attended seemed to deplete him of energy and make him exhausted; one or two appointments ate up an entire day, and he'd sleep through half of the following day. There was no such thing as free time. No vacation. Nothing worth getting truly excited about. 

Sickness easily ate up his life, took away time he could have spent working or... starting a family. The latter: something he wanted more than almost anything.

Falling ill, knowing that he'd never truly live a full life, Joe felt almost obligated to resign in all things that made life worth living. And, who could blame him? Even something as simple as breathing took effort; he hacked and wheezed and coughed unless he turned on an oxygen regulator and secured the tubing... He acknowledged that it was better for his lungs, if he breathed clean, filtered air, but he loathed the way his need for it became a limitation to his freedom.

For awhile, this was Joe's life. Hospitals, doctors, nurses, needles taking or giving blood, and machines pumping things in or out of him.

Worse yet was the ominous facts: the expression on the face of every specialist who couldn't identify his ailment. Nothing made Joe more bitter than the line: "I think we should focus on making you comfortable."

It was unacceptable when he felt he had so much more to do with his life... Thus far, he'd done nothing. So much time behind him, and virtually nothing to show for it. That needed to change. There needed to be some trophy, some mark, some evidence of his existence and pending grandeur.

He stopped going to his appointments after realizing that the doctors had conceded their efforts and were prolonging things simply to collect the money he didn't have; instead, he picked up a few text books and began to study. He was already smart, borderline genius. He'd find his own cure, or die trying. That was the initial idea, at least. That was his driving force, his focus, and his path of choice. That's what would lead him unto greatness.

The process was slow. Tedious. Days bled into weeks and months. There were days when he was too ill to even turn a page; there were days when he didn't sleep, high on adrenaline and possibility. High on the limited life force he had thrumming in his veins. And after studying the effects of various chemicals and putting together a rather extensive threshold of notes and theories, he began to reach out and make connections, contacting anyone who might be able to assist or lend their expertise.

In time, after coming into contact and speaking with numerous companies, doctors, and personnel of the like, he found his research gradually beginning to deviate from its original intent.

It was during one of his many visits to the park, a trip he'd frequented in search of small pleasantries- a rather dry and staunchy afternoon- that Joe caught sight of a strung out kid resting against the trunk of a grown Maple; though, perhaps _'kid'_ wasn't the right term. What he saw, was a teen, or a young adult. Someone roughly between the ages of 18 and 25, but they looked so young, with a boyish face and clothes that sagged over a lanky frame; an appearance of limbs and content lethargy that only someone who is truly Zen could achieve. The teen -or young adult was rail-thin, gaunt and skeletal, with skin stretched over bone like organic spandex; it made Joe's wrecked and deteriorating body look like that of a champion bodybuilder by comparison, and there was an instant powertrip in this acknowledgement.

Strange, new excitement and insatiable curiosity had the sick older man admittedly stalking the younger male after that. It wasn't meant to be creepy at first; he just wanted to know about this new... creature that he happened upon. In no time at all, he'd learned the stranger's name, living conditions, and terribly bad habits. Of said habits, the most notable one... was huffing.

 _Chroming_.

Taking a can of spraypaint, shaking it, pressing the nozzle to coat the interior of a small paper bag, and then crinkling the neck of the bag so that it was nearly closed, and pressing his nose and mouth into the shy opening. Breathing in the fumes.

When the huffer pulled away, his eyes were closed and a look of pure bliss covered his features; his smile was small, but his instant happiness radiated like he'd won the lottery. Shiny metallic paint was smudged around his mouth, tattling what he'd been doing, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

And that kind of carelessness- that carefree attitude and content expression... It was something people - _everyone_ \- wanted and looked for. And they got it by any means necessary.

Joe decided then and there, to abandon his futile quest for a cure to his unnamed disease and instead create that means of serenity. It was certainly plausible. Possible.

It was only fumes, after all. The young man had been huffing fumes. An inhalant that shot chemicals straight to the brain for a temporary high. With this as his muse, Joe would fabricate something glorious and useful. Something to kill the sting of reality and birth a fresh pool of Zen.

Without propriety and approval, it might never be entirely legal, but if something as simple as huffing paint could grant a temporary high to that degree, a glorified and long-lasting version would certainly hold appeal.

This was the idea. This is what would turn aerosol particles into gold (or chrome). This could be a major staple in what would stand to be Joe Moore's legacy!

-After roughly 14 months of work and careful consultation with a few private investors, an inhalant was finally created in a makeshift shed-turned-laboratory. It's contents were bright silver, luminous. And Joe sat back with an air of satisfaction as he thought to name his Frankenstein of a drug.

He mulled over calling it Chrome or Shine or any number of synonyms. Yet, it would be his first official tester- a war veteran called Ace- that offered the idea: Night Fumes, and the name stuck. It seemed fitting enough.

Knowing that such a potent substance would never be legalized or receive a certified seal of approval from major corporations, he sought to make a version that was actually profitable. Thus, after an additional six months, his brand of toxin was moulded into pill-form: silver and blue time-release capsules that withheld controlled amounts of his fumes.

The pill was called N1F4.

With that venture quickly rising to become a notable success, he sought to contact the media and spread the word; he had to tell everyone about this new miracle-in-a-pill. He needed consumers for his product, and he wanted them by the masses.

-Within a year of being released onto the shelves of multiple distribution centers, N1F4 became bigger than Tylenol.

... and this was only the beginning.

While N1F4 was popular, the inhalant known as Night Fumes had the potential to bring in more money by the score.

With the plans rapidly forming in his mind, Joe reasoned that he couldn't do this alone, especially while he was still sick. This would be a business. He would need workers. Associates and clients. For things to run smoothly, he'd need an arsenal of people willing to devote their time to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should kick up by introducing more characters!


End file.
